Notes
by crispydaae
Summary: Erik has been fixated on the young brunette dancer known as Christine Daae for quite some time. When he realizes they are connected by some force that allows them to communicate by writing notes to each other on their skin, he uses this to his advantage and sends her messages from her Angel of Music. Soulmate AU inspired by a prompt on Tumblr.
1. Chapter 1

Christine felt like an absolute mess.

Her hair, always a large, curly mass atop her head, her skirts always ruffled from moving through the thin, cramped passageways behind the stage, and recently, she was constantly finding her forearm covered in ink. She had no clue how she managed to get it there, the dark, smudged imprints of what looked like bars of music - she assumed it rubbed off of her sheet music, but why was this suddenly happening so frequently when it had never happened before? She wondered if perhaps the ink used on the sheet music was now of a lower quality, or maybe she simply was just becoming messier as she grew more anxious about her career at the Opera house.

She knew she wanted to sing, but she had no idea how. She had no teacher, and no one in the Opera house seemed to find her worthy of instructing. Madame Giry would gently remind her of her talent as a dancer when she expressed her love for singing, and she knew it was the stern, but kind ballet master's way of reminding her of her place in the Opera house. She would never sing an aria in the center of the stage, she would always be performing pliés, perhaps jetés if she was lucky, in the background.

Still, she snuck the sheet music away from the sopranos, studied it in her bed in the dormitories late at night, softly singing under her breath. She'd often fall asleep like this, staring at the notes into the latest hours of the night, waking the next morning to find her roommate Meg Giry shaking her shoulders and looking at her forearm, covered in smudged bars of music, in disapproval.

Erik typically spent the late hours of the night composing, however, he'd decided to take a stroll through the secret passages of the Opera house one night when he'd heard the most angelic voice. Untrained, rough, and even out of tune, but soft, kind and pure. Since then, he'd spent every night standing by the wall he'd heard the voice behind, listening to the songs she softly sang, shaping her voice in his mind, mentally developing her repertoire. Often times, he would even compose small fractions of an aria for her on the spot as he listened to her voice and imagined the places he could take it. He never seemed to remember to bring any parchment with him to write upon, so he would scribble every bar of music he could onto his left forearm, attempting to squeeze in as much of the music as possible as her voice soared in the room next to him. He would transcribe it onto paper himself in the early hours of the morning, when she had fallen asleep and her voice was nothing but an echo in the back of his mind.

Erik now spent the first half of every day polishing what he had composed sitting on the ground next to the wall of his Angel's dormitory, and rarely had time to check on the rehearsals for Hannibal occurring above him. However, one morning he decided to make the trip up to the Opera house, standing in the rafters and watching the dancers below. He mentally critiqued their movements, deciding which dancers he would have Madame Giry cut from the production. The Opera house had been spending far too many of their funds on additional dancers lately, and not enough on the sets that were once immaculate before the budget was put towards casting. He had noticed one dancer other than Madame Giry's daughter - a short brunette girl, seeming just a bit older than the young Giry, had completely perfected the dance, performing every move with such ease and poise, it seemed as though it took no effort at all. He was caught by surprise when at the end of the performance she stumbled, her pointe shoes causing her to slip to the ground, and she caught the arm of a piece of furniture that the stage managers had been rolling by - a long, green chaise lounge that would be used in the spring production of Il Muto. It was a nice piece of furniture, one that the Opera house had continually recycled throughout various performances. Her forearm fell against the expensive fabric, leaving a path of black ink against the lush green as she dragged down it. He was exasperated, wondering how the young girl could be so graceful one minute and so completely clumsy the next - she seemed nearly artistic in her dancing, painting such a portrait, creating such a beautiful scene, and she just as easily destroyed something the next moment. He nodded his head in disapproval, wondering just how the ink had gotten all over the dancer's arm to begin with.

Something about the dancer sparked his interest, though, and the dichotomy of her grace and messiness somehow caused him to gravitate towards her, as if she was a puzzle he wanted to find all the pieces of. He returned to rehearsals early the next day, so early that the ballet dancers were only warming up, several of them sitting cross legged on the floor as they stretched their arms and rolled their shoulders. He watched the young brunette girl, sitting in the corner, already finished with her stretches. She sketched in a notebook that was nearly full, likely trying to find a way to pass the time while the other dancers caught up with her. When she ran out of space on the final page, she looked at it for a moment, seemingly unsure of what to do. She then took the pen to her arm, drawing a single rose on her left wrist. He mentally berated her, wondering why such a beautiful young woman would tarnish her skin with ink, then realized his hypocrisy, remembering all the nights he had scribbled music notes onto his arm when he lacked paper. He looked down at his arm, wondering if there was anything left over from the night before, when he noticed something so impossible, so incredible, it simply couldn't be -

On Erik's left forearm was an identical black rose, the stem crawling up his arm to the top of his wrist where the petals unfolded.

From that moment on, Erik watched the brunette girl like a hawk. He realized the ink on her arm the previous day was from him, his musical markings from the night before, and he wondered how and why they were connected, desperately pondering what kind of insane force would attempt to bring such a beautiful (yet admittedly messy) angel and a pitiful monster together. After rehearsals ended, he followed the young girl - Christine, he had learned when Madame Giry had called out her name - to the dormitories where she retrieved the sheet music from under her bed and sat on the mattress studying it. He watched her through a crack in her door, and she hadn't even opened her mouth when it clicked in his mind - she was the angel, the angel of music - the music he'd heard, the music she'd brought him and the music he'd composed because of her voice. If there was some force trying to bring them together, he decided it was because together, with their talents combined, he was certain they could create the greatest performance the Palais Garnier had ever witnessed.

Erik gazed upon Christine as she sang, knowing she would be his muse for the Opera he'd already begun to work out the details of and planned to compose.

Erik began thinking of ways to bring Christine to him. When she had left her dormitory for rehearsals the next day, he tinkered with her mirror, adding a two-way mirrored glass in place of her average one, so he would be able to see her more easily. That was the beginning, at least. He could probably compose the Opera just by seeing and hearing her sing alone, but he knew he needed her voice for it to live to its full potential.

One night, he watched Christine through the mirror as she whispered to Meg about an Angel of Music. Her father had promised to send her one, and the young girl, only 20 years old but her heart even younger, seemed to still believe that he somehow would. A plan began to develop in Erik's mind, and it wasn't something he was proud of, but he knew it was the only way to get her to sing for him.

For the first time since arriving at the Opera house, Christine stayed in bed. It was her father's birthday, and she couldn't bear to see the light of day, knowing that he could not bask in the warmth of the sun with her - he could not share laughter and joy in the afternoon, could not play the violin as the sun began to sink in the horizon, could not tuck her into bed when the moon took its place in the sky. She slept until 10:00 AM, which was exceedingly late for her, then rose, fastening the belt of her robe around her waist and sitting back on top of the bed, staring at the wall across from her, hardly moving a muscle. When she finally looked down, though, she saw ink on her arm once again, completely unsmudged due to her lack of movement in the past few minutes. This time, what was written on her arm was clear, in stark, black ink:

 _I am your Angel of Music._

Christine nearly fainted. She immediately ran to her dresser, retrieving a handkerchief and wiping the ink away, but as soon as it faded, new words appeared in the same sophisticated, but slightly messy, script:

 _I am your Angel of Music. Come to the mirror._

She wiped the words once more and pulled her robe tighter around her, once again securing the belt around her waist and stood before the mirror. She stared at her reflection for a moment, unsure of what to do until she saw new words appear on her forearm. She looked down, eyes squinting at the words, too lightheaded to make sense of what was occurring. She could barely decipher the French words she normally spoke and read fluently as they sat on her arm, unwavering:

 _I would like to sing for you, Christine. Please look in the mirror and nod your head if you are willing to listen._

If this truly was her Angel of Music, she was glad he seemed to take note of how frightened he was, seemingly proceeding with caution in his message to her and respecting her boundaries, hopefully aware of the fact that she might not want to hear from an Angel of Music. Her mind beat against her, reminding her that Angels are not real - if they were, her father would've sent one much sooner, and this man was surely a ghost, a demon...yet somehow, she felt a strange pull as she looked up at her reflection in the mirror. Her gaze shifted to the side of her head, looking past herself, her eyes burning through the mirror as she straightened her posture and nodded her head resolutely.

And when he sang, she knew the Angel of Music had finally come to her.

Not wanting to overwhelm her, Erik did not immediately propose the idea of becoming her instructor and providing her with singing lessons until she was ready to take place as lead soprano, hopefully in the opera he would write himself. He simply sang for her, a short, simple piece he'd composed to convey the way her voice caused him to feel. It was a lullaby of sorts, a melody that called to him, to both of them now, when they were parted from each other, ringing in their ears at night:

 _I am your Angel of Music...come to me, Angel of Music…_

Over the course of the next few weeks, Erik did not visit Christine at her mirror again - not to her knowledge, anyway. He attempted to gain her trust through communicating with her solely through writing, not wanting to overwhelm her with the sensation of hearing his voice alone in her room. It was difficult to catch her alone with her busy schedule anyway - he would eventually notify Madame Giry of his intention to instruct her, and hopefully she would provide them with a place to meet, perhaps grant a private dormitory or dressing room to Christine...for now, he built their odd relationship through short messages to her on her arm throughout the day. She would write back to him when she could, sneaking into the corner of the stage, facing away from the other dancers as she reached into her pocket, pulling out a handkerchief and wiping away his message before hastily scribbling her reply.

One day in particular, Christine's dancing was lacking, the energy visibly drained from her movements and the bags under her eyes dark and heavy set. She was fruitlessly attempting a plié when she noticed dark words form on her forearm in the corner of her eye:

 _Are you well, Christine?_

She stifled on a sob, relief and sorrow simultaneously washing over her at the realization that someone had finally noticed her, finally asked her if she was okay. Living in the Opera house with no real family, and only one friend, Christine felt immensely alone, and simply knowing her Angel had noticed her lack of spirit was more than enough to liven herself up.  
 _I am well now that I have heard from you, my Angel. Are you well today?  
_ She wrote, then quickly wiped it off her arm as soon as it had appeared on his, replacing the words with new ones:  
That is a rather silly question, I suppose. How could an angel be unwell?  
He smiled mirthfully at her statement, yet an inexplicable sadness washed over him as he penned his reply:

 _Oh, but angels can be unwell, my dear. In fact, it happens quite often._

She frowned at his reply, and his chest filled with warm at the young girl's sympathy - though her voice is what had drawn him to her, as well as how frightfully clumsy she was, he was beginning to fall in love with her heart and mind quicker than he could stop himself. He did not even notice that she had finished writing her reply as his eyes remained focused on her berry stained lips, still tugging down at the corners.  
He looked down at his arm once a considerable amount of time had passed, unable to tell if his earlier statement remained on her arm or if she had penned a new one.

 _Is it lonely being an angel?_

His heart sank down to his stomach at the question, yet somehow also swelled at the display of the two traits Christine held that he favored most about her - her curiosity and her empathy. As he began to think of what to say, he realized he may have answered differently if someone had ask him if he was lonely this time last month. But today, as he felt the warmth rise in his chest and his heart beating once again, beating as it never had before, he composed the most honest reply he could. It was an answer an angel probably wouldn't give, but the words his weak heart knew he had to somehow express flowed from his fingertips onto his forearm, then appearing on hers:

 _Not since I met you, my child._


	2. Chapter 2

Three months had passed since Erik began instructing Christine through her mirror. He had become an integral part of her life now, present from the moment she woke to the moment she fell asleep, never abandoning her for a moment. Even if she experienced the slightest shift in mood, he would immediately take note, and words of concern and care would appear upon her arm, asking her if she was well, if there was anything he could do. He was always watching, always guarding her and guiding her…

He was her Angel. 

To Erik, Christine Daaè could only be described as an angel. A miracle. A gift from heaven above, and how ironic it was that she thought she same of him, when he was only a deceitful demon, lying to be close to her. He knew someday he would have to tell her he was no Angel - perhaps he could maintain the guise of at least being a somewhat normal individual, but he knew the moment she would lay her eyes upon him she would see he was nothing but a man in a mask and sophisticated attire to make up for what he lacked underneath the layers. This became more and more prevalent as their relationship developed: it was a constant rain of questions from Christine every night, one trickling down his arm after the other in an endless storm of her fervent curiosity.

As Christine's birthday drew near, she began to ask him the question he dreaded most. The first time it appeared upon his arm, during a typical late night conversation, he immediately wiped it away, pretending he hadn't seen it. Three minutes later, it appeared again:

 _Is there any way I could ever possibly see you?_

He wiped once more, blowing the candles out in his lair, submerging himself in darkness. Perhaps if he could not see the messages, he would not feel compelled to reply. To his misfortune, his eyes quickly adjusted to the darkness that they were so used to, and he could easily make out the words upon his forearm. 

_You do not have to say yes, but I would like to receive an answer._

He exhaled deeply. Why did this beautiful, brave woman have to be so persistent? Of course, it was just one of the many things that made her Christine - it was not her voice, not her long brown tresses or the pale blue of her eyes; it was her inner fire, her drive, her fortitude, her unrelenting curiosity and her endless kindness. He would not trade a single of her traits for another, if he could. Not a single one. Breathing deeply, he penned his reply: 

_I am able to take form and appear if I must. Why do you ask?_

_It will soon be my birthday...I suppose it is not the most significant of dates, but I should like to celebrate. I have not done so in years,_ she wrote in a small script, fitting as much on her arm as she could before wiping it away to continue. _I thought, perhaps, you could do something for me._

_And what is that, my dear?_

_You could allow me to give you a gift._

_Give me a gift? It is your birthday, Christine._

_Correct, it is my birthday, and I shall spend it however I like...and how I would like to spend it is meeting the man that has instructed me, guided me, befriended me through my sadness._  
He blinked, staring at her statement, one word baffling him:

Man. 

-

Christine had known for quite some time that her Angel was no angel. How could he be, when he frequently erupted into rage over the simplest of things? How could he be, when he could not answer the simplest of questions about her father? She knew there was something missing in his story, something missing in the answers that he gave her, and most of all, she knew there was something missing in _him_ that caused him to resort to lying to gain her friendship. This is why she did not mind so much. This is why she was willing to forgive him, so long as he was willing to move forward in honesty...and that began with revealing himself to her.

It was the first time she'd referred to him as a man, though she had not called him an angel in quite some time either. Maestro sufficed, it seemed more truthful - he clearly was not lacking in knowledge on the subject of music. When he took over five minutes to reply, she wondered if she'd stepped too far and lost him forever...just when she rose from her bed in the darkness, moving across the new dormitory Madame Giry had assigned to her to look in the mirror at the end of her room, she caught sight of words finally forming on her forearm. She breathed a sigh of relief so deep it was as though she'd been holding her breath the entire time she was waiting. 

_How did you know?_ His script was even more jumbled than it typically would be, the strokes of ink almost indicating the motions his hand had made - did his fingers tremble as he replied? 

_I am no fool. I hope that you will not continue to be one and realize that I am more than willing to forgive you for your deceit if you will have the decency to meet with me personally._

_Christine, I am so sorry. I do not know why I…_ The words disappeared quickly, a plea replacing them: _I do not deserve your kindness, but I beg you, Christine. Allow me this illusion. Allow me to continue leading you to believe that I am anything but what I am._

_What I see you as now is a liar. Show yourself to me, and I will see you as an honest man._

Christine waited for an hour, sitting in the corner of her room, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders as she stared intently at her forearm, eyelids drooping and head hanging low. She was just about to succumb to sleep when she finally saw the words: 

_Mirror, 9:00 PM._

As she slipped into sleep, she dreamt of a man carrying her through her mirror into a strange new world - a world of music and darkness that she'd only ever dared to dream of.

-

After slicking back the hair of his wig for what must have been the hundredth time, Erik took notice of the time on the clock - 8:45 PM. In mere moments, Christine would stand in front of her mirror, waiting for him to step through as the man she wanted him to be. But he wasn't the man she wanted him to be, no matter how much she assured him that as long as he was honest, she would accept him. He could never be honest, no matter how hard he tried. Honesty meant being his true self, removing all of the masks that he'd worn over the years and all of the walls that he'd built - he could never truly be unabashedly honest the way she was. And certainly not in the way that she deserved.

At 8:55 PM, he stood before the mirror, a pot of ink and a quill sitting on the ground by his feet. He picked up the quill, and wrote one last message to her as her mysterious angel - after this, he would no longer be able to hide behind ink and mirrors and darkness. He would be Erik, her odd, reclusive instructor, and she would likely slowly drift away from him, leaving him in the kindest way possible. He tried not to think of this as he sent her one last message, reassuring that this is truly what she wanted: 

_This is the point of no return, Christine. Once I step through this mirror, you will know I am nothing. And I will see you in front of me for the first time, and you will be as you always have been...you will be everything._ He quickly wiped the last sentence away before she had a chance to read it, cursing himself for his foolishness - should he reveal himself _and_ the depths of his feelings all in one night? It would surely frighten her away for good. 

Instead of replying, Christine stared straight into the mirror, her blue eyes glistening with something other than resolve - it was something more like excitement, hope. He couldn't understand it as he finally stepped forth through the mirror and met those sparkling eyes with his for the first time. He stared in them, desperately attempting to decipher her facial expression, but her face did not move, her _eyes_ did not move, they stared straight forward into his before suddenly she was moving and two small, short arms wrapped around his waist.

His gift was successfully delivered.


	3. Chapter 3

**Heads up, I feel like this is a really long chapter. I hope you guys enjoy it and don't feel like it's too ramble-y. I have three more chapters left then this AU will probably be done. I'm not really sure about the way I've written this or where it's going, so comments letting me know if you like it are always appreciated :)**

 **feel free to talk to me about this on Tumblr, too! it's .com :)**

Erik didn't know how long he stood there unmoving, hands wavering behind Christine's back, unsure of where to place them - does he put them around her shoulders? The top of her back? Around her waist? No, he could not touch her there, touch her anywhere - not when she still did not know the horrors that hide behind the mask he wears and the walls he builds. He could not touch her when he was a demon, and always had been one - and she was an _angel,_ and always would be. Christine did not seem to pay any mind to his lack of receptiveness, simply held her embrace, eventually squeezing her arms around his waist a bit tighter before parting from him and finally studying his face. He waited anxiously, fingers flexing at the sides of his thighs. 

Christine had hardly looked at him when he'd stepped out of the mirror, simply crashing her body against his, eyes shut and buried into the crisp, clean fabric of his coat. He smelled like candles and sandalwood and crimson red roses, and she took in the scent of him, finally letting him reach all of her senses - she could finally see his tall figure before her, feel his hard chest and strong shoulders, hear his short, shaky breaths above her head, smell that intoxicating scent that she realized she would never be able to get enough of. This was when she parted from him, when her thoughts were now swirling and her breath caught in her throat. She finally stepped back and looked at him, and she realized she was better off with her eyes shut. The breath that was caught in her throat was now knocked out of her, shakily exhaling as she took in the sight of him. He was tall, and not just in comparison to her - he was quite possibly the tallest man she'd ever seen, and his dark hair was combed back perfectly, leaving nothing to hide the sharpness of his cheekbone or the striking shape of his eyebrow, nothing except for the mask which concealed half of his face. Still, she was content to see _something,_ even if it was only one eye, one eyebrow, one nostril, and most of his lips - it was enough for now. He reached one long arm out to her, covering the distance between them completely as he offered his hand to her. She obliged, letting his long fingers encompass her small hand, and he led her into darkness.

They walked in silence for the duration of their journey as her eyes adjusted to the darkness and she studied her surroundings. Once she could finally see, she realized it did her no good - every corner, every inch of this labyrinth looked the same, with tall grey walls and an endless path of cold stone. She could hardly make out the water ahead of her, its dark depths blending in with the tone of the ground - had the dark figure next to her not stopped several feet ahead of the lake, she could've stepped right into it. Before she knew it, he was leading her into a boat, standing at the edge and rowing as she took in the sight of the vast lake. For a while, she simply relaxed, listening to the sound of the water splashing, occasionally stealing a glance at the strong figure behind her. Each time, he met her eyes with his, piercing yellow and at one point glowing when the light of a candle hit them. She turned around, looking for the source of the light, and found a soft glow pouring from the entrance of a lair. He guided her out of the boat and brought her into what almost seemed like a house - it could be one if it were not for its inconvenient location and the cold, dry air that filled the premise. Still, he had decorated it well - she could see a main parlor and several doors leading to various rooms. She awkwardly sat down on a chaise lounge as he paced in front of her.  
"Well, are you going to sit?" She inquired dryly, slightly uneased by his anxious mechanics.  
"Right, yes, of course," he muttered, mostly to himself, before sitting in a chair opposite to her, resting his hands in his lap, one knee awkwardly bouncing.  
In the twenty minutes that she had spent with him, he had never looked so human.  
"Who are you?" She finally asked, the question seeming a bit too biting as it cut through the silence in the vast lair.  
"I am many things. A composer, an architect, a teacher. There are also several negative monikors that I am associated with that I should hope you will never discover, but knowing you, I suppose there is little hope in that matter."  
"I do not want your résumé, monsieur, I want your name," she replied quickly, showing little tolerance for the way he danced around the simplest of questions, never providing a solid, concrete answer. She had grown tired of this in their friendship, and now that he stood before her with no way to evade her questions or escape her altogether, she would not allow it to continue.  
"I am Erik. I am not an angel. I am not even a teacher, not to anyone but you. Here, in this labyrinth, I am simply Erik. There is nothing, no one else I can be in this darkness. It is a shame you should have to meet this version of myself -"  
"You mean your true self?"  
"You have hardly begun to see my _true form,_ mademoiselle."  
"Show me."  
He fell silent after this, and Christine realized that she could only push him so far in one night. Clearly, revealing himself to her in this way, showing her he was actually _human,_ was already a large step for him, although other people met her and introduced themselves to her on a daily basis.  
But Erik was not other people. She realized that if he were, she may not have given him quite as much time, anyway. She mumbled a quick apology and he accepted it immediately.

They spent the rest of the evening discussing music, painting, literature - all things Christine struggled to get her peers to show an interest in growing up, and even in the ballet, most of the girls' knowledge of the arts was limited to their art specifically. She had never met a man, never met _anyone_ with even a fraction of his knowledge or taste. He frankly made her feel inferior, though he did not seem to notice. Why would a man like him be trapped in this lair while so many fools roam freely above him?

A few hours had passed when Christine tried to hold back a yawn, but to no avail. Erik caught it the moment it began to escape her lips, and looked at the clock on the wall behind them - it was thirty minutes past midnight, and though he normally caught Christine up at this hour, he loathed to be the cause of her exhaustion the next day.  
"We should get you to your dormitory, Christine. I will fetch you a cloak for the journey back, it grows rather cold here at this hour," he said, rising from his chair and stretching his legs, realizing he had never sat still for this long in his entire life when he felt the stiffness of his knees. When he returned, he found Christine leaning sideways onto her arm on the chaise, eyes peacefully shut and her chest gently rising and falling. He put the cloak around her and tended to the fireplace in front of them, ensuring her warmth before receding into his music room to begin his nightly task of working on his opera.

Christine woke to the sound of an organ in the distance. She thought perhaps he had been playing it this entire time, but she had only heard it in her dreams - now it invaded her ears, playing a deeper, more sinister tone, though she did not find herself alarmed by it. It simply pulled her from her slumber, up off the chaise lounge and into the room several steps away...she opened the door gently, hoping not to disturb him so she could watch him freely as he played. She found him pounding the keys fiercely, taking several moments in between the notes to scribble on the parchment in front of him in a script that was now so familiar to her, she felt it was stamped upon her heart and soul. When the melody transitioned into a more somber tone, she took several steps towards him, watching him from behind, his shoulders working slowly, his posture less tight and gruesome as it was before. Now, he seemed to sink down as the notes slowly slipped from his long fingertips, sad and empty, and she felt the need to know him rise from deep within her, seizing in her chest - she needed to know the source of this sadness, this pain, this anger and mystery, and she could only think of one place that he could possibly be hiding it. Hand hesitantly reaching past the cold ivory of the mask's cheekbone, she hovered there for a moment before ripping. A scream rang in her ears as he turned away from her, scurrying into the corner like a frightened animal, one hand raised to his cheek.

He had been too late, though, for in the fraction of a second, she had seen. She had seen it all, the mangled flesh of his face, from the twisted muscle skirting across his cheekbones to the inflamed skin under his eye socket to his bloated lips. He was unable to conceal his face before she had seen it all, and she was unable to conceal her reaction - a gasp of shock, a flinch of pain, pain for _him,_ though he would not know it. He would only feel pain himself as he stared into the wideness of her eyes, her hand firmly clasped onto her mouth, holding back what he could only guess was a scream.

It was not a scream, it was a sob, a sob for him as she saw him cower in the corner, this man she had once perceived to be so powerful, so fearsome. She made her way towards him, feeling a strange urge to once again wrap herself around him, pepper kisses across his deformed skin, whisper words of compassion and acceptance loud enough into his ears to overpower the demons she was sure were harassing him internally. But he simply retrieved his mask, pulling it over his face and smoothing his hair back before straightening his posture and standing at his towering height once again. He held a palm out, bring her to a halt.  
"Go," he spoke harshly, the word heavy and strained through the tightness of his throat and his clenched jaw.

For once, Christine Daae could not bring herself to object, to argue or question. She simply stepped away into the shadows, attempting to find her way out of his lair before she heard her voice behind him.  
"I will bring you back. There are traps set. I would not wish you to experience more horror tonight," he spoke simply, his voice cold and monotone though she could detect the agony beneath it at the end of his statement.  
She opened her mouth to argue, to tell him there was no horror she had experienced, none other than the horror she felt thinking of her actions. She had been so invasive, so cruel - how could she strip away something she knew was such a protection for him? She tried to speak, but no apology seemed to suffice at the moment. All she could do was allow the tears to roll down her cheeks, whispering "I'm sorry" softly, eyes cast downward, avoiding his gaze.

 _She is afraid of me,_ he thought. _She cannot even look at me as she gives the apology she feels she must for her own safety - how could she apologize otherwise? What would she have to apologize for? I have not made it easy for her, she is a fiercely intelligent and abrasively inquisitive woman and I should never have kept anything from her in the first place,_ he concluded in his mind, though his chest ached in remembrance of what she had done.

She had betrayed his trust, the trust he had so bravely given her tonight by stripping himself of his illusions and allowing her to see him, as much of him as he could bear for her to see, until she had stripped away the only mask he had left, the literal one that he wore on his face. But he supposed he had betrayed her trust too, from the very beginning - leading her to believe that he was not a monster, was not even a man but an _angel._

His angel continued to weep before him throughout the rest of the journey, her quiet sobs not ceasing until she stepped out of the boat towards the exit through the mirror. She looked back as she walked away, casting him one glance, but he did not look up at her. She sobbed once more at this before returning to her dormitory and falling against the chaise lounge, shoving her head into a pillow and crying.

She had ruined the basis of their relationship that she had tried to establish tonight, the basis that she felt was not there due to his lies and deceit - trust. Tonight, she had set out to get to know him so that he could receive her _trust_. Little did she know, she would foolishly betray his.

Throughout the night, she brought a quill to her forearm several times, but never pressed the ink into her skin. She did not know how to begin to fit her apology into the small space of her forearm, and she thought about putting it on her thigh or somewhere a bit larger, but she knew he likely would not see it on his, not unless he bathed or undressed.

The next morning, she wrote to him every twenty minutes, pleading for him to come to the mirror, to come back to her so she could apologize.

The silence she was met with, the lack of that familiar dark script upon her skin, she felt more lost in than the blackness she was enshrouded in the previous night, and she found herself missing that endless abyss, for somehow in it, she had always found him. Now, there was nothing but the blinding, stark paleness of her forearm with nothing upon it, a blank page haunting her.

 _I am sorry. I am so, so sorry,_ she wrote one last time before sleeping that night. She woke to nothing.

She repeated this process for several weeks: waking, writing an apology, going throughout her day the best she could with the emptiness she felt every time she saw the empty slate of her forearm, and concluding the day with one last apology and praying that if she could not wake to something, anything from him, that she would at least meet him in her dreams so that she could wrap her arms around him once more and tell him how sorry she was, so she could force him to hear her.

She never received a true reply. Instead, she heard his voice in the darkness one night when she had been crying into her pillow, and at first she wondered if after losing yet another central figure in her life she had finally lost her mind. He continued to sing, however, as she lifted her head from the pillow, searching her surroundings for him, but could not find him anywhere in the darkness - she eventually surrendered to what she assumed must be madness as his voice lulled her into a sense of peace she had not experienced in weeks, not since she had felt his chest rising and falling against hers.

 _"Close your eyes and surrender to your darkest dreams,"_ he sang, and she slept soundly, dreaming of waking to his golden eyes looking into hers once more.

When she did wake, she did not see his eyes or his figure, but what she found, she could not take for granted, not when she had not seen it in so many weeks - she found a single rose upon her wrist, the stem extended all the way up to her elbow with small words underneath it:

 _Forgive me for all you have seen, Christine. You deserve only truth, only beauty._

Sucking in a deep breath, she tried to summon up the courage she needed to reply with the only words that came to mind in that moment. Hand trembling, she hoped he would not notice the increased messiness of her handwriting as she wrote:

 _No matter what you may believe, Erik, you have only ever lacked in one of those things._

She expected to be met with silence again, to not receive a reply for several hours, at the least. Instead, she heard a sob from the other side of her mirror. She knocked against it, and it opened once again. She found Erik on his knees before her, and this time, he wrapped his arms around her waist, pressing his head into her chest.  
"Forgive your Erik, Christine. Forgive me for my face, for my lies, for all that I have hidden from you...I am so sorry, Christine. You deserve nothing but honesty and goodness…"  
She slid down onto the ground before him and wrapped herself in his embrace, their heights now equal as she rested her head on his shoulder.  
"There is nothing to forgive, Erik. I understand now. I understand," she whispered, running a hand through his hair.  
He sobbed again, and summoned the courage to place a kiss upon her cheek before hiding his face in the crook of her neck once more. She felt heat rise in the spot where his lips had been, and she trembled in his arms. He noticed immediately, uttering a short apology under his breath before standing again. Christine wondered in her head if he had regretted his decision because he thought himself unworthy, or if he had been caught up in the moment, realizing swiftly that he did not feel such things for her...her chest felt heavy at the second thought, and she then began to interrogate _herself_ internally - why should it matter so much what he thinks? But she knew. Oh, she knew, and she thought about how she had always known, from the moment she'd heard him sing to every moment he'd ever instructed her, complimented her, even simply greeted her in the morning.

They stood awkwardly for a moment, before Christine felt something within her that told her she was tired of thinking. She once again could not hold herself back, knowing her impulsivity would do her no good, but she knew she would not regret this decision, that it was not like her last one. It was not bred out of arrogant entitlement to the answers she thought she immediately deserved, it was not invasive curiosity...she knew there was only one word that could be attributed to what she was feeling as she abruptly stepped forward, wrapping her arms around his neck.

 _"I am so sick of apologies,"_ she muttered before rising up on her toes and pressing her lips against his.


	4. Chapter 4

Two months had passed since Christine Daaè had kissed Erik.

When she kissed him, he had not moved at first, but responded once she ran her fingers through his hair, and he opened his mouth, letting her in. They kissed for what felt like weeks, making up for all the time they had lost, all the time they had wasted on apologies and silence. His lips moved against hers, seeming to convey the words he knew he may never have the courage to speak: _I love you, I love you, I love you. You are my entire soul and you have saved me_. Once they parted, though, he knew he could never speak those words, never even speak of this kiss again, looking into her blue eyes and remembering once more that she was an angel. She was kind and selfless and good and brave and this was simply a product of that - it was an act of kindness, just another one of her endless apologies for what she had done. It was guilt. It was pity. That is what he believed, and that is what caused them to spend the next two months so close and yet so far from each other.

Christine assumed that Erik did not want her like that, and she spent every moment with him experiencing both the highest joy and the deepest sorrow - she could spend every minute with him and it would not be enough, not until she could feel his lips against hers once more.

She did spend nearly every minute with him, however, rising to a "good morning" message from him, coming down to his lair for lessons, then for tea, then using their strange, fateful communication abilities to speak to each other into the late hours of the night. They would talk about music, of course, about their lives - Christine more than Erik, of course. They would never speak about each other.

Christine learned within time that Erik was the Phantom, though he had not committed any atrocities since she had met him. She had suspected it for some time, but when he admitted it to her himself, she wiped the words off her arm immediately, going into the washroom to scrub the empty surface with soap and water, as if she feared the confession had stained her skin. She was horrified, she was angry, but she understood, and she forgave him.

She always forgave him.

He could never seem to tell her these things in person, and reading the saddest of stories, the darkest of secrets on her own skin became a common occurrence as Erik trusted her more and more. In turn, she somehow fell more and more in love with him - with every story of his past, her heart ached with a longing to erase what he had been through, to replace every single word of despair on her arm with words of love and safety.

But he didn't want that, did he? He couldn't, when he had never kissed her again, never even spoke of that moment that they shared so long ago.

The only circumstance in which she could recall Erik allowing her to bestow that upon him once more, allow her to grant him the smallest affection, was when he told her the story of his mother. It was one he had saved for last, telling her of the more horrific tales such as his crimes in Persia first, as if he was trying to scare her away before she got too close. He had failed miserably, and one night they found themselves in his lair after a particularly exhausting lesson, both of them too weary to make the journey back to Christine's dormitory. As always, she stretched her legs out comfortably on his chaise lounge, paying no mind to how improper it likely was, and he sat across from her, a bemused expression upon his face as she lounged so comfortably before him. They spoke long enough for their tea to go cold before Christine finally breached upon the subject of his past again.  
"Erik, I truly am grateful for all that you have told me and trusted me with, but…"  
"But _what,_ my dear? You know there are some things...some things I cannot tell you. You would never be able to forget them or look at me the same," he replied, wanting to add _"you can hardly look at me now"_ but stopped himself short.  
Christine avoided his gaze, unable to look into his golden eyes without an eruption of butterflies within her stomach, floating all the way up her chest into her throat and hindering her ability to speak clearly. She had learned to look down when asking particularly daunting questions, or in certain lighting that caused his eyes to glow in such a way that she would lose her train of thought. "You cannot be sure of that, Erik. You cannot know how I will react," she replied solemnly.  
"Precisely, Christine. I cannot take any chances," he nearly whispered, the sorrow in his voice evident.  
She stood and strode over to him, kneeling down next to him and placing a hand on his knee. "Take a chance, Erik, please. I have taken so many chances with you...I want to know you, truly and deeply. Tell me...tell me of your childhood. It is the only thing you have not explained," she said gently.  
He looked down at her, and she could see a mixture of fear and something else, something more gentle, in his eyes. He placed a hand on top of hers and proceeded to tell her about his early years. By the end of his tale, they had somehow ended up on the floor before the fireplace together, tears rolling down their cheeks, and Christine wanted nothing more than to kiss him again, to kiss every inch of his face and tell him that his mother may not have been able to love it but she was. She _did._ She knew he did not want her in that way, though, and she didn't want to frighten him, so she settled for scooting closer to him on the floor and wrapping her arms around him.  
He pulled her into his lap and they spent the rest of the night that way, and Erik could not remember a time he felt safer, even if he did spend every second dreading the moment she would inevitably escape his arms.

Since that night, Christine and Erik had been in a mostly comfortable state with each other - they both felt their own anxieties about their feelings, and they were both afraid of losing one another, but Erik trusted Christine not to run from him so easily when she had not run after seeing his face or hearing about his past, and Christine trusted Erik to never leave her without a word again. He promised he would not, no matter how upset he ever was - never again would he disappear without telling her goodbye.

One warm summer night, Christine awoke to the discomfort of her bedsheets seeming to suffocate her, and she noticed smudged ink on her arm. Whatever he had tried to say had rubbed off, and she wrote to him, inquiring what he had said.

 _What is it, Erik?_ The ink disappeared.

She received no reply.

Once again, she wrote:

 _Erik, what did you say?_

As she stared at her arm waiting, she recounted all of their earlier conversations in her mind, wondering if she had done anything to upset him. She grew more anxious realizing that nothing had seemed wrong earlier, they had left off on a good note and she knew that Erik would not be sleeping at this hour.

She decided to go to the mirror, standing before it for several moments before pushing through herself and venturing down his lair as carefully as she could, avoiding traps.

She rowed herself across the lake, knowing that Erik would be furious when she reached him. She knew he never wanted her here by herself, but she couldn't seem to shake the feeling that something was wrong, that he needed her.

When she reached his lair, though, she saw it was not in its usual state of cleanliness - several tea cups were knocked over, music pages strewn across the floor. She searched every room, expecting to find Erik drunk or otherwise distressed.

It was so much worse than that, she realized, when she finally reached his music room and saw his organ bench sitting alone with no one occupying it.

He was gone.


	5. Chapter 5

Erik knew that he could not preserve his security at the Opera house much longer. When the new patron learned of the tales of the Phantom, he had been prodding around, looking for answers, much like Christine might. Madame Giry had attempted to dismiss his questions, reminding him that it was only a story, but when rumors circulated that Christine was frequently hypnotized by the ghost, kidnapped by him and brought to his lair every night, Erik had been foolish enough to let her spend the night in the Louis Philippe room not long after this news reached the Vicomte.

Christine had gently rejected Raoul a week before explaining that she did not have feelings for him in that way, and Raoul had accepted it, but thought it strange - how could she turn down her childhood best friend who could provide for her and protect her for the rest of her days? He knew she did not have another suitor - if she did, everyone in the Opera house would know of it. He had noticed the absent look in her eyes, the frequent shifts in her mood, and he had not contemplated it to the possibility of her being in love with another - no, surely, she must not be well. Was hypnosis possible?

Raoul followed her one night, knowing how foolish it was, but he could not help but worry for her. He watched Christine enter her dormitory and peeked through the crack as it closed to search for anything out of the ordinary, but her living space was pristine as always. When he opened the door again ten minutes later to find her missing, he began to consider the rumors and investigate further.

Erik did not know how Raoul had discovered the lair, but he knew he had little time to escape. He wrote Christine one last note before he departed, intending to write to her again as soon as he could. He kept his shirt sleeves rolled up despite the cold weather outside, not wanting to risk smearing the words upon his arm despite how compelled he felt to do so by his own anxiety at his confession, but if he was caught, he wanted her to know, she had to -

When he looked down an hour later, now several miles away from the Opera house, _I love you_ was no longer a carefully written series of three words, eight letters, but smudged ink on his arm.

He rolled down his sleeve, not wanting to think about whether or not she had seen. He could not bear to think of her waking to his confession and wiping it away without responding, despite how likely it seemed to him. He continued on through the night, deciding upon contacting her once again in the morning.

It was a clear night, the moon shining so brightly that even the brim of his hat could not prevent the moonlight highlighting the paleness of his mask. He should've switched to a black one, but he hardly had time - in his hurry, he could only think of two things - retrieving his opera, and a quill to write to Christine with.

He moved as carefully through the night as he could, his senses not as sharp as they would normally be - he was too distracted by thoughts of Christine. Christine, who he loved, who he had just professed this to - who was likely repulsed by this, or at the very least scared, and yet still all he wanted was to tell her again, to see her again one last time. He was having so much difficult time making it to his destination unnoticed, he wondered if he ever would.

He finally arrived at an apartment he'd rented out years ago, empty save for a few supplies and a desk. He would've traveled farther if he thought he could, he knew he was hardly safe here, but he didn't have much of a choice with the police crowding every corner. He sat by the window, the curtains drawn, listening for any noise outside throughout the rest of the night, his heart pounding, begging for it to be allowed to beat one more day, just long enough for him to see Christine again, to tell her that he loved her and that she would be okay on her own, despite how afraid he knew she was of being alone. He remembered her crying after their kiss, the kiss that she'd given him after he ignored her for a week...she begged him never to disappear again, never to leave her. He had never seen her so vulnerable. He vowed to himself he would never let her feel that afraid, that helpless again. He hoped she would not panic when she realized he was gone, if she had not already panicked at his confession of love. He continued to worry throughout the night, less about his safety and more about Christine.

o0o

Christine was found by Raoul in Erik's lair at 5:00 AM, sitting on the ground, dried tears on her cheeks.  
"Christine! What has he done to you? Oh, Christine, I am so sorry I did not come sooner -"  
Christine raised her head up immediately, alarmed at the sight of her childhood sweetheart in the home of the man whose secrets she had now hid for months, the man who she now succumbed to - no, accepted and _embraced_ the darkness of, the man that she now _loved._ It felt wrong, she knew something was wrong - not because of Erik, but because of Raoul. How did he get here? Why was he not surprised to find her here? She remembered the rumors that had circulated about her and the Phantom the previous week, and she knew that Raoul would not believe her if she told him that the Phantom was only a man, and a man that she had grown to love. He would think her insane, possibly even try to place her in a facility or at the very least force Madame Giry to babysit her, and she would be separated from Erik, unable to find him and help him. She pulled her sleeves down, not taking the chance of Raoul seeing anything Erik may write to her. She decided to play the game the best she could, using the acting skills Erik had always told her came naturally to her.  
"Oh Raoul, it was terrible, simply terrible! One moment, I was in my room, the next, I was here! I hardly have any memory…" she let her voice trail off anxiously as she gave up on finding additional words, her mind too jumbled to be particularly creative. She hoped that the distress she felt about not finding Erik would translate into distress about being kidnapped or hypnotized or whatever nonsense Raoul had believed.  
Raoul brought her back to her room, refusing to leave her side. She tried to get him to allow her some privacy several times, but he would not permit it, explaining that Madame Giry would be by soon and then she could change into her daytime clothing. Her forearm seemed to itch with anxiety, she knew there were words there, there _must_ be - was her Erik calling out for help? Saying goodbye? She could never know as she simply held back her tears, doing her best to conceal her fear for the Phantom, and waited for freedom.

Erik had written to her twice that morning. His first message was simple, hardly conveying the sickness he felt at the thought of Christine seeing what he said and ignoring it:

 _I hope I did not scare you with what I said last night, if you saw it._

He wiped it away after a few moments, and in the second message, he attempted to divert her attention from his previous:

 _The managers and the Vicomte have sent the police after me. I am safe, if you were wondering. I simply must hide as long as I can. I will return in a week._

He gave up waiting for response after ten minutes, pulling his sleeve down in shame of what he had confessed the previous night, not knowing that Christine was desperately awaiting the moment she could not only inquire about his safety but profess the exact same thing.

In the evening when Madame Giry arrived, Christine was finally able to contact Erik. His second message was mostly still intact, due to Christine's carefulness when pulling the sleeve of her dressing gown up. Madame Giry kept her back turned, fully knowing that Christine was not changing as she'd stated she needed to, but respecting her desire for privacy. Christine scribbled on her arm as quickly as she could,

 _I know that the police are after you. Stay safe and contact me as soon as you are able._

She felt compelled to conclude her message with something she knew she had not been able to say, something she feared he did not even want to hear. Still, she wrote it anyway, ignoring her girlish uncertainty in case it was her last opportunity to say it.

 _I love you,_ she added at the end. But he could not see it, not when the bottom of his sleeve tugged upon the left side of his forearm as he rolled it up to see what she had written. All he saw was the sentence at the top.


	6. Chapter 6

**well, that's it, guys! unless I do an epilogue (which I may choose to do if enough people ask me to lol), this is the end of this AU. thank you all so SO much for being so supportive of it and writing me such lovely comments and sending me asks about this, you have no idea how much it meant to me or how much it motivated me to complete this for you. I mean, this was only supposed to be a one shot originally, and I was NOT planning on expanding on it at all, but you guys are so wonderfully encouraging and supportive that you motivated me to try. I really hope this last chapter was the chapter that you guys were hoping for, my amazing readers deserve a really good ending and I did my best to deliver it. anyway I'm rambling right now but yeah, thank you so much for everything, I love you guys 3**

 **oh, and shout out to the following people on Tumblr for really helping me throughout this journey: madiamazing, gracianasi, phantom-triumphant and an AMAZING reader for always leaving such incredibly detailed comments, magicath17. I wouldn't have been able to do this without your love and support, thank you guys 3**

Christine was released from the prison of her dormitory the following morning. She received word from Erik, and her heart swelled and sunk simultaneously at discovering he was still safe and seeing that he had not replied to her declaration of her feelings, had not even granted her a few sentimental words for her to hold onto as she waited for him to return. All she saw was:

 _I may be able to return tomorrow. The police are beginning to think Raoul is playing a prank, and anyone else involved is delusional. Pretend you know nothing._

Erik did return the next evening, looking through her mirror to ensure that she was alone before writing to her. He found her sitting upon her bed, staring straight ahead, and he found that he had missed her gaze, even if she did not know he was looking at him. The way she stared forward with such determination, such focus - it was something that had once unsettled him, but he had now missed it so greatly in the two days he had been without it.

 _I am here,_ he wrote.

She jolted up from her bed, sprinting over to the mirror. He opened it, and they both stood awkwardly for a moment, staring at each other, feeling an intense pull but not knowing whether or not they could close the distance.

"May I…" Christine began nervously.  
"Yes?" Erik asked anxiously. He desperately hoped that she did not want to ask him about what he wrote - he did not want to speak of it ever again, not when she had obviously not wanted to speak about it when she initially saw it.  
"Never mind, I do not think you would...desire it," Christine choked at the end, though she did not know if it was from the awkwardness of her word choice or the pain she felt verbally acknowledging what seemed like the truth to her.  
"You may speak freely, Christine. Whatever you must say, I have already anticipated."  
She now looked up at him, puzzled. Did he expect her to tell him again, when he had not acknowledged her confession previously? Did he expect her to ramble on like some infatuated child? She was insulted, but her need to feel him did not ebb, and she continued voicing her previous request, forcing herself to finish the sentence. "May I hold you?" She blurted out as quickly as she could, hoping he could not see the blush in her cheeks in the darkness.  
He could, and he stammered, wondering why she would want such a thing, why she would even feel the need to ask. "Of course," he croaked, and they awkwardly closed the distance, his arms stiffly wrapping around her.  
"This feels wrong," she finally admitted after a few moments.  
He nodded his head in agreement, stepping away. "You do not...you do not have to indulge me, Christine. I know that I am not the man that you deserve. Please, no matter what happens to me, no matter how frequently I find myself in danger or turmoil, do not feel as though you have to show me kindness."  
"What?" Christine asked stupidly, before she realized. It finally occurred to her.

 _He didn't see the message._ He didn't see the message, and he was not uncomfortable about her feelings. He did not even know of them.  
"Oh my god," she whispered before looking up at him. "You didn't see," she said simply.

He looked at her in confusion, expecting her to elaborate, but she didn't, she simply stared at him in awe for several moments before he had to end the silence.  
"I do not know what you are speaking of, Christine, but if it was some sort of reply to what I said, you do not have to tell me again. Any rejection or dismissal, I already felt without it being said."

Christine's head was spinning. She was lost once again. "What on earth are you talking about, Erik?" She pleaded, her eyebrows furrowing together as she tried to make sense of this conversation. What did _he_ say?

It was now his turn to realize. She didn't see. _Oh, he was such a fool._ How could he not have realized? She would _never_ ignore such a statement; she would, at the very least, thank him...he wrote to her while she was sleeping, it would've been so easy for the words to become smudged.

They now stood awkwardly, neither sure if they should admit what they said, until finally Christine took the lead. "I don't know what you said, Erik, but there is something I must say. Not because you are in danger, not because I 'pity' you, but because I cannot hide this within me any longer...I assumed you would not want to hear this since you never spoke of our kiss again," Christine began.

Erik braced himself for some sort of explanation about the kiss simply being an act of kindness, or the result of Christine becoming overwhelmed by the emotions of the moment. Instead, he saw her enter her dormitory, retrieve a quill and write on her arm, before returning to him. He did not remove his eyes from her figure to look down at his arm until she brought her fingers to it, lifting it and prompting him to look down. He shut his eyes, swallowing deeply, and opened them, ready to face whatever confession she had written that she was too nervous to say out loud:

In Christine's unique, unmistakable cursive were the words he had never expected her to write, and yet he realized she had already written them while he was hiding and he had not seen:

 _I love you._

His eyes filled with tears, and he could not move, could not breathe as he looked into her sparkling blue eyes.

 _"Oh, Christine,"_ he finally choked out before falling to his knees, and she came down with him. _"Oh, my Angel. I love you, I love you more than I can bear,"_ he professed, his head buried into her bosom.  
She let a sob escape her now too, a sob of relief, of joy, before she placed her hands around his face, her left hand running around the edges of the mask, silently asking permission. He nodded, and for the first time, she was able to kiss him fully, her lips completely covering his as she drank him in, muffling his whimpers and wiping away his tears with her thumbs. They kissed there on the ground with Christine seated in his lap for what felt like hours before he made a helpless moan, sweeping her up into his arms and carrying her all the way to his lair, not wanting to stop holding her. He brought her to the Louis Philippe room where they simply lay together in bed, holding each other as she kissed every inch of his face and he whispered the words of love he had been holding back as long as he had known her. Finally, all his walls were down, all his masks removed, and they no longer needed a quill or ink to communicate - the words freely escaped their lips in between kisses without fear or the desire to erase them.


End file.
